Not So Different
by Amhran Comhrac
Summary: A "how they met" AU of Malcolm Hawke and Leandra Amell.  This is a prequil of sorts to my fic Leap, but since it's set a couple decades before you don't have to follow both.  Originally written for the Bioware Big Bang.
1. Chapter 1

_This was written for the Bioware Big Bang on Livejournal. I started it before any DLC came out that rendered it... well, totally AU._  
><em>Meh, oh well. ;)<em>

_There is art to go along with this! It was illustrated by the lovely nirrum! Here is the first- remove the spaces_ _http:/ nirrum. deviantart. com/ art/ Not-So-Different-Piece -1- 243837102_

* * *

><p>It was a brutal winter in Kirkwall, the kind that rattled windows and sent ashes scattering across the floor from the drafts.<p>

Leandra _hated_ winter.

"You should go out more," her mother said. "I know the Comte's son asked you to dinner. Why did you say no?"

She made a face. The Comte's son was a stuffed shirt with a ridiculous Orlesian moustache. It looked like a squirrel's tail strapped above his mouth. She knew her mother approved of him, and would tolerate his company as a result since when mother was happy everyone was happy, but tolerating _him_ and tolerating the _cold_ at the same time was simply impossible. "I was tired," came the neutral response.

Elizabeth Amell looked at her daughter carefully, searching for signs of illness. "We should have the mage take a look at you when she arrives," the woman finally said. "You might be coming down with something."

"Mage?" Leandra looked at her mother in confusion.

Elizabeth only shrugged. "Oh, you know your father. Once he heard that Harrimann got a household mage, well, Faustian just had to get us one, too." She clearly wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea. "There's no arguing with that man once he gets an idea in his head."

"Yes, but… a _mage_? What will we do with a mage?" Leandra knew next to nothing about mages, sparing that her cousin had been one. Taken to the Circle almost a year ago, when she was only four, and quickly boated off to Ferelden not long after; Aunt Revka wouldn't stop standing in the Gallows courtyard calling up to the little girl through the window of her new room at the Circle of Magi. The Chantry didn't like families keeping ties with mages so they shipped the poor child off to the barbarians in the south rather than keep her within her mother's grasp. Leandra imagined they would all end up terribly sad people, if that was any indication of their childhoods.

"As though I know," her mother replied. "She'll probably just keep the bloody fireplaces lit while the Chantry sits back collecting our coin!"

Not knowing how to respond to that, Leandra retreated to her room. Perhaps she could befriend the girl… well, if it was a girl. For all she knew they would send them a wizened old crone who would join her mother in tutting about the Comte's son.

Over dinner that night her father seemed, if anything, amused by the situation. "Harrimann's going to be seeing green," he laughed. "Best healer in the Kirkwall circle, that's what they tell me. On track to be the youngest person to make senior Enchanter."

"Why did he not ask for the best?" Elizabeth asked.

"You know how he is," Faustian replied. "He wants the nice things, but won't _pay_ for them. He got the best a lower price could buy. And, he wanted a man. Understandably so, really. That son of his can be a bit… _reckless_; he didn't want some mage woman ending up in a family way." Faustian chuckled. "Not that I can blame him for that. Can you even imagine the scandal?"

"I can imagine a lot of things," Gamlen said, smirking slightly. Leandra looked over at him and laughed. Their parents were so oblivious neither had the slightest idea that Harrimann's son was on track only to rival the eldest Amell child as the most notorious playboy in Hightown.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, father," Gamlen said. "Nothing. Just… thinking about tomorrow."

"You are _such_ a pig," Leandra said as they walked upstairs after the meal. "This poor girl probably hasn't even been outside in a decade. Don't…_ traumatize_ her!"

"Come on, Leandra, I'm not some sort of _monster_. Besides, everyone deserves a chance to live a little." He dropped his voice. "You can't say you're not curious, can you?"

"I can say I'm not curious quite easily," she replied. "Why look, I _just_ did!" She made a face at him. "You know in twenty years that girl could very easily be little Margar—"

"_Please_ don't remind me," he said, cutting her off. "Flames, I don't know what to think about that. I feel sorry for the girl. Really, don't get me wrong. But since then I've had two, ah, _friends_ tell me they weren't interested in spending time with someone who had magic in their family line."

"Oh, so let's bring some more in, then, why don't we?" she said. "You're mentally undressing this woman and you haven't even _met_ her yet. For all you know she's ugly as a mule!"

"True," he agreed. "And what a tragedy that would be for me. But until then don't ruin my fantasies, sister."

With that, he gave her a smirk and sauntered back to his room. Leandra only shook her head, calling "Pig!" once more at his retreating form.

The next afternoon Leandra and Gamlen watched with curiosity from the second story of the main hall, hoping to get a glimpse of the new help.

"This is much more exciting than the last time we got a new cook," she confessed. "Maybe she and I can be friends! I bet they don't let them have nice things in the Gallows, and I've got plenty of dresses…"

"Now who's getting ahead of themselves?" Gamlen asked with a chuckle. "I just hope she has legs for miles. I already _know_ she's got magic fingers."

Before Leandra could respond to _that_, there was a knock at the door. The siblings fell silent, waiting for her to be escorted into the main hall where their parents waited.

Something was wrong. Her father was arguing with a templar, imposing helm firmly in place. Behind him she could see a flash of red, a thin arm, a long skirt. "Let's go downstairs," she whispered to Gamlin. "I want to hear them!"

Bounding down the stairs, she ignored her mother trying to wave them away. "Now I was told we'd be getting the best healer in Kirkwall."

"You _are_, Serah," the templar replied. He sounded tired.

"Really?" Faustian said. "Since the description I was given of the mage we'd be sent was _quite_ different."

Leandra stepped to the side, peeking around the templar. _Maker's breath, she's the ugliest woman I've ever seen_, was her first thought as she caught a glimpse of a heavy jawline beyond shaggy red hair, thick brows and the tip of a nose barely visible. _Looks like_… her thoughts stopped as the mage looked to her left. Seeing their face she quickly realized it wasn't an unfortunately mannish young woman. It was a young _man_ a rather handsome young man, at that.

"Blast and damnation," Gamlen muttered from behind her.

The mage continued to shift, glancing around nervously. His skin was so pale she imagined she could see veins below the surface. At every word about the clearly inferior mage the Circle was trying to send them she could see his shoulders tense.

He was silent, but something about the man's posture gave her the idea that was an unfamiliar state for him. Realizing that, it shouldn't have surprised her when a moment later, the young man turned so he was looking her father in the face clearly waiting for a chance to speak. "I assure you, I _am_ the finest healer in Kirkwall's circle," he finally said, sounding slightly offended. Not that Leandra could blame him.

"Oh?" her father asked. "And the other mage? Was she _also_ the best?"

"Actually, yes," he said. "We had the same grades. She was considered top of our year because of… _unrelated_ classes." Faustian stared at the young man, he responded by crossing his arms insolently. "So I failed math. Last I checked I don't need to calculate out my spells with a pen and paper."

"And what happened to her? Why was this changed without notifying me?"

"She is… no longer available," the templar said, voice tense.

"Well, who else got her? Was it that bastard Harrimann?"

"She's _dead_," the mage broke in flatly. "She hung herself."

"_Mage_," the templar said, an ominous note of warning in his voice.

"What?" the young man replied. "I just said she decided life wasn't worth living. I never told them it was because she was tired of being used as an unwilling whore by the templar—"

Light flashed off the bright silver armor of the templar as his hand struck out, sending the young man sprawling to the floor. He seemed to glow blue for a moment before standing back up, wiping blood away from unbroken skin.

"See?" he said to Lord Amell, clearly untroubled by, or at the very least accustomed to, such treatment. "Not even a scratch. I dare you to find me a healer who could do better."

"Fine," Faustian said, hands raised in defeat. He didn't _actually_ care, Leandra knew that. He wanted to say he had the best mage in Kirkwall, it didn't matter if it was man, woman, or trained dancing donkey. The whole show was just to let the templar know Faustian Amell wouldn't bow before them. "Fine, you can stay." He turned his attention to the templar. "You, though… get out of my house. I don't know what kind of animals they have running around the Gallows, but _civilized_ people don't beat others in the front hall." For a moment she thought the templar would then turn on her father, which pretty much confirmed his summation of the situation as far as Leandra was concerned. To her relief the man bowed stiffly and strode out after a tense moment.

"How bloody much is this guy costing us?" Gamlen whispered. "Templars don't put up with smart-mouthing unless they've got no other choice. Pop must be giving a fortune to the Chantry for them to make him tolerate that."

Leandra didn't reply, still disturbed by the young man's answer to think on much else. She couldn't help but realize the templar hadn't _denied_ anything, either.

Dinner that night was quiet. "Do you think it was true?" she finally asked.

"Think what was true?" her father replied.

"What he said. About the other mage."

Her father looked thoughtful. "I hope not," he said, "even if only for Revka and her girl's sake."

"I'd hate to meet the sort who would _invent_ a story like that," her mother said. "There are things you don't joke about." She made a face of disgust, setting her napkin aside.

Leandra considered that for a moment, in complete agreement. The mage was eating with the household staff, off somewhere in the back of the estate. "That would be a horrible thing to make up," she said. "I don't think he did, though."

"Me neither," Gamlen agreed. "The templar knew what he would say before he said it. That was one guilty man right there." Leandra nodded. She had been thinking the same thing.

"I can't believe the Chantry would tolerate such a thing," her mother said quietly. "They're still _people_, after all."

"I can," Gamlen said. "The templars were happy to kill the last viscount. What, you think they're _nice_ to the people they _openly_ control?" He shrugged, clearly unconcerned. "That's life."


	2. Chapter 2

The mage had been a part of their household staff for over a week when she stumbled across her mother arguing with the head housekeeper. "No," the elderly woman said. "I don't _care_. We will _not_ break bread with one of… them! I will _leave_ first! I could find a position with any family in Hightown!"

"Catherine," her mother said, tone soothing, "you've been with us for more than twenty years. You don't mean that!"

"I most certainly do," she said. "It's unnatural and I want no part of it!"

"Fine," Lady Amell sighed. "He can take his meals with _us_ if you find the lad's presence so horrifying. Maker's breath, he's barely more than a boy."

"I don't care," she said. "A mage is a mage, it doesn't matter if they're young or old."  
><em><br>Ah_, Leandra thought. She should have expected that would be the reason. Glancing over, she saw a flash of red as someone darted around a corner at the entrance to the servant quarters. Her mother walked over as the housekeeper flounced away. "You heard that, then?"

"I wasn't the only one," she said quietly, inclining her head towards the door.

She sighed. "It is difficult," Elizabeth said, voice barely above a whisper. "I know what the Chantry says, but all I can think of is Revka's girl. I can't blame Catherine, though. I know it's my own sentimentality that keeps me from seeing them for what they are." She shook her head. "They may look like us, but in truth, mages _aren't_ like you or me. We can't forget that." Leandra thought it sounded like her mother was just trying to convince herself. "But… I see no need to shame the boy, it isn't _his_ fault." Raising her voice back to a conversational level, she immediately adopted a more cheerful demeanor. "No matter. He can take his meals with us. I see no reason to have an educated man eat with the maids and stable boys."

And with that it was decided. When the family gathered for meals the mage would join them, sitting at their long table. He rarely spoke, only watching everyone with a slight smile on his face. Leandra was surprised to see, on the rare occasion she caught him looking in her direction, that his eyes were a vibrant blue. She thought that, between those eyes and his shockingly red hair, he would have been the most colorful person in Kirkwall even if he hadn't been wearing bright blue and green robes trimmed with fur.

Perhaps mages had a different standard of attractiveness. Not that he wasn't an attractive man. Leandra actually found herself glancing at him out of the corner of her eye far more than was proper. However, her attempts at enjoying the sight of his eyes, or the way his long hair fell over his collar, were repeatedly thwarted when the garish robes distracted her. Looking over at him once more, she noticed they even had gold embroidery.

Maybe they thought the robes were nice. After all, they only ever saw other mages and templars. He could be looking around wondering why they were all so drab.

She felt something poke her in the arm and looked over just in time to see a long-fingered hand retreating. "The answer is yes," he whispered, not looking up from his plate.

"Pardon?"

"You were wondering if all mages dress like this, or if mages _like_ dressing like this. Something along those lines, right? Probably combined with a few thoughts about how horrible the robes are? Well, the answer is yes." He had, it turned out, a very slight accent. Almost imperceptible, it turned up as only a strange stressing of letters now and again.

"How do you know?"

"I did the same thing when they brought me to the Circle," he said, still not facing her. "Until I got used to them."

"They look… warm?" she offered, not sure how to reply.

"It's the fur," he said. "Perfect for these horrid winters." He sighed. "Maker, I hate winter. Warmer here than the Gallows, at least." She glanced down the table. Her parents were deep in conversation, and Gamlen had already excused himself. No one was paying the least bit of attention to them.

As she looked away from her mother and father Leandra wondered why she was suddenly so worried. After all, no one had told her _not_ to speak with him. Granted, she was quite sure the sort of thoughts she had been entertaining featuring brilliant red hair and slender fingers would have been frowned upon, but no one had to know that. "What's your name?" she whispered. It had occurred to her that since he arrived he had been referred to as 'the mage,' 'serah mage,' or even simply _him,_ but never by name.

"Malcolm," he whispered back. "Well, Malcolm Vanedrin Hawke if you want to be formal."

"_Vanedrin?" _she dared to glance over, raising her eyebrow slightly.

"I suppose it was someone's idea of a small rebellion," he said. "He was the last king of Ferelden, and I was born during the occupation. Well, the last until…" He smiled then, looking pleased. Leandra found herself returning the expression before she realized it, despite knowing the smile wasn't for her. She knew the current king of Ferelden was named Maric, she knew because it had shocked people across Thedas when he took the throne only a few years earlier. No one had expected the barbarians to actually oust the great Orlesian empire, after all. Apparently bits of current events did reach the mages in the Gallows.

"So that's the accent," she said.

"That's the accent," he agreed. "Feel free to use your favorite dog-related joke whenever you're ready. My personal favorite is the one about every man in Ferelden not being able to sleep without a dog in his bed, since they're less hairy than the women."

She laughed, covering her mouth and coughing when her father glanced over. He looked away after a moment. "My name's Leandra," she whispered.

"I know," he said. When she gave him a confused look Malcolm blushed slightly. "I asked around."

For months they continued in the same way, whispering together at meals. It became a given that he would take the empty seat next to her, not the one next to Gamlen, and if anyone noticed, they didn't care enough to comment. To her surprise, Malcolm never deferred to her because of their difference in status, or spoke down to her because she was a woman. Speaking with someone who thought she was a true equal, or made a good show of it, was refreshing. Even if she did suspect it was mostly due to his complete ignorance of social formalities. The finer points of Kirkwall's social hierarchy were not, she had learned, something the Circle bothered teaching mages.

Despite all this, Leandra had yet to work up the nerve to speak to him at any other time, or seek him out. She knew Malcolm wasn't _busy_, they had no actual need for a mage beyond status, but part of her wondered if he might feel obligated to be nice to her simply because she was the noble daughter while he was little more than a high ranked servant. However, for that same reason she knew he wouldn't look for her, either. Leandra had to content herself with their daily chats during meals while she worked out a way around that dilemma, with Malcolm occupying more and more of her thoughts as time went on.

"Do you miss Ferelden?" she asked him one evening at dinner. Gamlen was out, as were her parents. It was just the two of them. Leandra preferred it to all the nights she had eaten alone.

Malcolm looked thoughtful. "In a way," he said quietly. "I was born there. If given the choice, I'd die there. I'm a Fereldan, and always will be. Some of the templars would call me 'dog lord,' but I don't care. I'm proud of who I am. Ferelden is the birthplace of Andraste, and the defeater of the Orlesian empire. Why would any sane person be ashamed to call it home?" He sounded defensive, as though waiting for an argument.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't be," she said holding up a hand. "Don't get all worked up over it. I was only asking." Too curious to resist, Leandra couldn't stop herself from saying "I didn't expect you to be religious."

"Religious?"

"Well… the Andraste thing…."

Malcolm made a face. "That a woman named Andraste led a slave rebellion and defeated the Imperium is a matter of historical record. As to anything else… I really don't care. The Chantry and I aren't exactly friends." He dropped his voice leaning closer. "Personally, I sometimes wonder if Andraste herself wasn't an extremely powerful mage. Don't tell anyone I said that, though. I suspect the laws about burning people alive for claiming that are still on the books." When she laughed he relaxed. "And _worked up? _This isn't even _close_ to worked up," he said, laughing. "Nothing's on fire, after all." When Leandra gave him a surprised glance he only shrugged. "Fire's my default."

"Your _default?"_

Malcolm chuckled. "Sorry. It's a mage thing. We've all got that one spell we fall back on. It's the spell that might… sneak past you when you're distracted. Or that you call on if you're in danger and can't think of anything else. Your default spell. Mine's fire. Lucky me." He rolled his eyes. "Wish it could be ice. Ice is much safer. Or healing! But _no_, I have to go and set things on fire."

Leandra was horrified. "You get _distracted_ and set things on fire?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Of course not. I have phenomenal control. Probably for the best. It would have utterly destroyed my reputation if I'd managed to set every woman I was involved with on fire at one point or another."

"Involved with… oh!" she turned red, imagining Malcolm with some faceless mage. When her mind gave that mage the same face she saw in her own looking glass every morning Leandra wondered if it was physically possible to die from embarrassment.

"I… probably should remember you're not a mage," he said, noticing her embarrassment. "Sorry."

"Are things that different in the Circle?" she asked.

Malcolm looked to be considering his words carefully. "Mages are more… forward. Open. We don't get married so we don't have to bother with all those social… formalities." He smiled at her. "I sometimes forget we're different."

"Not _so_ different," she said.

"Oh?" he grinned. "Can you light the fireplace without getting up, too?"

"Sure," she said. "I'd just ask you."

"Touché."

She blushed, looking at the table. "I know it's silly, and one of those things people always say in bad books, but sometimes I do feel like I've known you for years." Leandra paused, glancing up at him shyly. "Does… does that sound stupid?"

"No," he said quickly, lip twitching. "Well… a bit," Malcolm admitted after a moment. "But I do know what you mean."

Leandra changed the topic, suddenly nervous. "Have you had to do much work since you got here?"

Malcolm shrugged, swallowing the bread he had been eating. "Only on Gamlen."

"_Gamlen_?"

"He is apparently a regular someplace called the Blooming Rose," Malcolm said with a suggestive wag of his eyebrows.

"Oh, Maker," Leandra burst into laughter.

"Yep," Malcolm leaned back. "Apparently your father has hired the best healer in Kirkwall to work, full time, on nothing more than Gamlen's reoccurring case of Orlesian Pox." He paused, gesturing at her. "But don't tell him I said that. For some bizarre reason people think healers are supposed to keep quiet about their patients."

"You're not?"

"As though I know," he laughed. "This is my first job!"

Leandra decided she now preferred the nights her parents went out, leaving her alone.

"So, was it true?" Leandra finally gathered the nerve to ask Malcolm one morning at breakfast. "What you said, that day you arrived?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Really? You think I'd _invent_ something like that? Of course it was true."

She gasped. "That's… horrifying. Do you think the Grand Cleric knows?"

"I'm sure she does," he said. "Who do you think conducts all the funerals? Not that she _cares,_ mind you, but then… we're mages, not _people_."

Making a face, Leandra shook her head. "You shouldn't talk about yourself like that. That isn't true."

Malcolm clucked his tongue. "My, my, Leandra Amell, you ought to be ashamed. Isn't it a bit early in the day for such wild blasphemies? What's next? Questioning the divinity of Andraste? Slandering the viscount?" He gave her a look of shock. "They warned me all you nobles were libertines, but I had _no_ idea!"

They both began to laugh. Hearing them, Elizabeth Amell glanced over at her daughter before looking pointedly at her husband. Neither Leandra nor Malcolm seemed to notice.

The next afternoon she decided to try and water the plants in the study. "So…" Leandra looked up, hearing a familiar voice speaking in an unfamiliar volume. Seeing Malcolm watching her from across the room she suddenly realized they had never spoken in tones above a whisper, this was the first time she'd heard his actual voice since the day he arrived. "You're the one who's been killing all the plants?"

Looking down at the pot on the table she blushed. "I… well, I've been trying not to. But every time I water them it's too much… or not enough…" sighing, Leandra pushed the plant away. "I suppose I should give up."

"Let me see," he said, walking closer. Sitting across from her Malcolm examined the plant, laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, really," he said, still smirking.

"Clearly it isn't _nothing_," she replied, smiling.

Malcolm looked up, meeting her eyes. Leandra felt heat rise in her face and glanced away. "I planned to come in and find a book. I certainly didn't expect to come in and see the young Lady Amell fretting over a whore's blush."

"Maker, don't call me that," Leandra said. "First off, my _mother _is the Lady Amell. If you were going to call me anything it would be Lady Leandra. But don't, since I can't stand it. I have a name, I'd prefer you use it."

"All right," he said. "Only fair since I've never had to hear you call me 'Serah Mage.' I _hate_ that."

She smiled. "Good. And a _what_?"

"Whore's blush," he repeated, still smirking. "That's the name of the plant."

She looked up then and, seeing his expression, burst into laughter. "You're serious?"

"Absolutely," he said, examining the plant again. "I think this one might be salvageable, though. The pot's too small. Nothing more than that."

"Really?" she said, looking pleased. Leandra stood, picking up the plant, and turned to leave. Freezing at the door, she smiled to herself before turning, glancing over her shoulder. "Well? Aren't you coming?"

It was Malcolm's turn to look away. "Um… sure," he said. "Where are we going?"

"To the garden," she replied. He froze. "What? You don't like gardens?"

Malcolm pushed his hair back from his face nervously. "I can't really say, having never been in one," he said. "But, um… I'm not supposed to."

"Not supposed to what?" she asked.

"Go outside," he replied.

"Why not?"

He tensed, drawing in on himself. "So I can't escape."

Leandra froze, almost dropping the plant. "They… they're _forcing_ you to be here?" She had thought he enjoyed her company. Now she felt slightly ill realizing he was a slave humoring the master's daughter.

Malcolm seemed to realize the misunderstanding immediately. "What? No not like that. I _wanted_ to come here. It was a _reward_. And I like being here. It's warm, I don't get punched in the face nearly as often, no one's threatened to kill me or rip away my emotions in months… the whole thing is very relaxing. Plus, I get to talk to you." He grinned at her nervous giggle. "I just mean escape _completely_."

"From the Circle?"

"Well, yeah," he said. "Wouldn't you want to?"

"Probably," Leandra admitted. "Where would you go?"

He shrugged. "Not sure. I know should say Tevinter since I wouldn't have to worry about templars there, but the slavery really turns my stomach. You know, what with being one myself and all. It's kind of a sore spot."

"So you _do_ consider yourself a slave?"

"_Consider myself_?" he raised an eyebrow. "Last I checked I've got no say in where I go or what I do, and I've never held a coin in my life. Doesn't seem to leave much room for debate. Not _your_ slave or your family or anything, mind you. Don't worry, all my hate is squarely focused on two places." When she looked confused he shook his head. "Here's a hint. Both begin with the letter C."

"Ohh…" Leandra said, understanding dawning.

"Yep," he replied. "But, to get off this miserable subject, I'd say if given the chance, I would really just like to go home some day."

"To Ferelden?"

"Maybe start a farm…" he looked pleased at the idea. "I'm good with plants."

Relaxing, Leandra smiled at him. "You want to start a _farm_," she said incredulously, "and you've never even been in a _garden_?"

"The Gallows has a greenhouse. I've barely even been outside since I was eight," he said, hopping up to sit on the table. "Went from the Gallows to the boat, the boat to a coach at the docks, and the coach to your front door. That's pretty much the limit of my open-air exposure since the day I accidentally set the neighborhood bully on fire. I know, I know, the tan fools _everyone_." He made a face. "Templars are allowed wherever they want, of course. And Enchanters can go into the courtyard. I'm not an enchanter, though. Just a lowly mage." Malcolm pulled his feet up, sitting cross legged on the table. "Just as well, something tells me I'd be prone to sunburns. Usually goes along with the hair."

"Time to change that," she announced, walking closer.

He backed up, a look of horror on his face. "Change my _hair_? I like my hair! You don't like my hair?"

Leandra flushed. "No, I like your hair, too," she said before giggling nervously once more. "Just come with me." She reached out, drawing her hand back quickly. After a brief moment of hesitation she reached forward once more and grabbed Malcolm's wrist, too unsure to actually take his hand. "Come on."

"You're trying to get me in trouble, aren't you?" he said. She released her grip as soon as he was back on his feet. "You know the templars won't just send me to bed without supper; it's a bit more serious with them. I've grown quite fond of my head in our twenty two years together, I'd rather not have it forcibly removed from my shoulders. And you have no idea how badly blood clashes with red hair. It would look just awful."

"Well, I won't tell if you won't tell," she replied, unable to stop herself from smiling when he stepped closer to her.

Malcolm grinned. "In that case, lead on. Just wanted to make sure it was willful rebellion and not simply ignorance of the rules. Breaking the rules isn't much fun when you don't_ know_ you're doing it, after all."

"This way," she said, leading him through the house. When Leandra pushed open a heavy door and stepped out, Malcolm paused. Glancing out cautiously, he took a deep breath before following her.

The ground was uneven. He followed her unsteadily, feeling the occasional rock dig into his feet. Circle boots were not made for walking outside.

"You look like you're going to be sick," she said, glancing back at him. "Healer, heal thyself."

"It's…. bright," he said, glancing up briefly.

She grabbed him by the wrist again, tugging Malcolm along. The gardener glanced over at them, eyes widening. "Shhh!" Leandra said, holding a finger to her lip as she looked at the elderly elven man. He only shook his head.

"You'll get me in trouble, Lady Leandra," he called.

"How could I get you in trouble?" she called back. "I was never here!" Ignoring him, she glanced around. "Here?"

"What?" Malcolm tore his eyes from the sky to glance at the spot she indicated.

"Here?" she repeated. "I think here will work."

"Uh, sure," he said before she left, disappearing to borrow a shovel from the gardener. "Wait, no!" he called at her. "It needs some shade."  
>Shaking his head, Malcolm forced his feet to move. It was plants and dirt, he <em>knew<em> plants and dirt, even if there weren't walls and a ceiling of glass surrounding them.

"Which way is east?" he called.

She glanced around helplessly. "Um, there?"

The gardener cleared his throat. "My lady? That's south." He walked over, large brown eyes taking in the plant. "Whore's blush?" he asked Malcolm with a laugh. "I think along that fence will be best. You're looking for a place to catch morning sun and afternoon shade, right?"

"Yep," he said. The gardener nodded before retreating into the house, clearly wanting nothing to do with either of them.

Leandra walked over, picking up the pot and upending it. Malcolm winced, but held his tongue. "Oh, it's all… roots," she said.

"Exactly," he said. "So, we need to break the roots up and replant it."

"All right," she said, picking up the small trowel and began hacking away at the plant.

"Maker!" he gasped, pushing her hands away. "Not like that!"

"What?"

Malcolm laughed at her confusion. "Fold your hands together," he said, demonstrating by folding his fingers together. She mimicked him. "Now, if I want to break your hands apart I can do this," he reached over, gently unfolding her fingers and separating her hands, his fingers circling her slim wrists, "or I can start hacking away at you with a trowel. Which would be better?"

"Oh, the trowel, absolutely," she said.

"I'd say the same. But plants have no sense of _fun,_ so we need to be gentle with them. Otherwise they do things like, well, die."

He began to gently break apart the roots, long fingers working through the dirt. "What should I do?" Leandra asked after a moment.

Pausing, he glanced over, passing her the shovel. "You seem to be the trowel expert. Dig a hole."

"Dig a hole?"

"What, you think I can create one with magic?" came the response. "Well… I could. But making you do it is easier. And less messy."

She began working, laughing after a moment at the mud caked under her nails. "I think I saw a worm," she said, "and I'm _filthy._ How is this less messy?"

Malcolm grinned, still looking at the plant. "I'm sorry. I meant less messy for _me_. Not you." He stopped her. "I think that's fine, we're planting flowers, not committing someone's ashes to rest."

He set the plant into the hole. "And there we go." Leandra reached over to help him pack the earth back into place. Accidentally brushing her fingertips with his own, Malcolm froze. Glancing over at him, Leandra saw his skin flush. "Sorry," he whispered, pulling his hand back.

Swallowing, Leandra gave him a small smile, looking into his nervous blue eyes. "Don't be," she said.

Malcolm leaned over, pulling her closer with one hand as their mouths met. Leandra's lips parted, as their tongues met she reached up, twining fingers through his hair, the palm of her hand resting on his skin. _So warm_, she thought briefly. His skin all but burned under her fingers. Torn between throwing herself into the kiss and wondering if the heat was a spell, or some side effect of being a mage, Leandra didn't notice him tensing. Seconds later Malcolm jerked back violently, moving several feet away from her. "Oh Maker, I'm sorry." He covered his face with his hands for a moment. "I… I'm so _so _sorry. That was completely out of line. I just… it won't happen again."

"No," she said quickly, wondering just what she had been thinking a moment earlier. "That was my fault."

"Either way, it can't happen again," he said quietly.

"No, it can't," she agreed. "We should go back inside."

* * *

><p>Art! http: nirrum. deviantart. com/ art /Not-So-Different-Piece -2- 243837362


	3. Chapter 3

The two were quiet at dinner that evening, and every meal for the next few weeks. Leandra would occasionally catch him looking at her, an unreadable expression in his blue eyes. If she had to guess, it was probably somewhere between 'sadness' and 'lust.' At least, that was how she would describe her own impression. _Stop,_ she told herself. _You're acting like a fool over someone you barely even know_.

It didn't make things any easier.

One evening, long after the house was silent, she crept down from her room to the servant's wing. Light seeped out from under one of the doors, as she had expected. Malcolm had once told her he was a night-owl.

She knocked, and waited.

The door opened a crack, Leandra could see a glimpse of pale skin and red hair, a single blue eye peeking out. "What…?" he swung the door open the rest of the way. "Leandra? What are you doing here?" She swallowed. Malcolm was ready for bed, wearing a pair of baggy pants… and nothing else. "Sorry," he said, flushing as he gestured for her to come in. "I don't think I'm dressed for company."

"It's all right," she said. Leandra reminded herself she'd seen men without a shirt on before; it was no reason to suddenly become an imbecile. Granted, those men were her father and brother, but even so, she hadn't come here to _gawk. _"I just… well…" she shrugged, sitting at his tiny desk. "I don't know why I came here. I wanted to see you."

"You see me every day," Malcolm pointed out.

"That isn't what I mean," she said. "We've barely said a word to each other in weeks. Not since—"

"I know," he said, not letting her finish. It had hung unsaid between them for weeks, after all. Why change things now, when they both knew what she was talking about. "I'm sorry. I don't know_ what_ to tell you, really."

"What do you mean?" she demanded. "We've had plenty to say until then. One kiss and that it? We can't even be _friends_ anymore?" Malcolm was sitting cross-legged on his bed, looking at her. She groaned, pushing dark hair back. "Maker, this all sounds so absurd."

"No, it doesn't," he said, leaning back against the wall, one leg pulled up to his chest. "I'm sorry. I figured it was smarter this way, for both of us." When she didn't respond he sighed. "There's a few ways this could end, none of them good. In any of them, you'll end up betrothed to some nobleman, probably in the very near future. At best, I end up… not happy about that. At worst? Well, the templars, or your father, or your betrothed, or some combination thereof kills me."

She sighed. "You always talk like you're utterly helpless. You're a bloody mage, not an invalid."

"You think I don't know that?" Malcolm demanded. "The lack of personal freedom really makes my place in the world crystal fucking clear." He raised a hand, lighting the fireplace. Leandra jumped. She had never seen him cast a spell, not since he healed himself on the day he arrived.

"_That_ is what I am."

"I know," Leandra said, nervously glancing at the fire.

Malcolm stood, pacing. "I don't think you do." Lightning surged up and down his arms. He raised a hand towards the desk, waving it through the air and sweeping the papers and books aside with invisible power. "It's easy to _say_ you know I'm a mage, but to _see_ it? Not quite the same, right?" He stopped his pacing, standing directly in front of her. "Horrifying, isn't it? Unnatural, disgusting? Take your pick, I know what people think when they actually see it." Malcolm put his hands on the desk, boxing her in. "_We__. Are not. The same,"_ he said, glaring at her. Heat was rolling off his skin, hands glowing as they rested on either side of her.

Leandra tensed, narrowing her eyes at him. He was trying to scare her, and she knew it. Trying to frighten off the silly little noble girl. Jumping to her feet, narrowing the gap between them, she grabbed Malcolm by the back of the neck. Now at eye level, she glared at him and hissed "_I. Don't. Care." _Malcolm's eyes widened, but before he could reply she slammed her lips into his.

They both fell back against the desk. Panting, Leandra ran her hands across his back as Malcolm's mouth moved down her neck. His skin burned under her fingers. After a few moments Malcolm reached down, pushing her skirt up and sliding his hand over her knee.  
>She tensed as his fingers moved up her thigh. "No?" he asked her, mouth still pressed against her neck.<p>

"I'm sorry," came the response. She blushed, suddenly feeling foolish.

"Don't apologize," Malcolm said, moving to wrap his arms around her waist. "That's fine."

"Really?"

"What kind of brute do you take me for?" he said while smiling at her. Leandra relaxed and hopped up, sitting on the desk. Malcolm moved closer, hands on her hips. Giggling, she pulled him closer still, hooking one of her legs around his waist. He moaned, feeling her press against him. There was a squeak of surprise as Leandra felt him through the thin fabric of his pants. "I, um," he stepped back slightly, blushing. "Sorry. Only human, all that."

Feeling heat flare up within her, seeming to radiate out, she smiled. The knowledge that he wanted her as much as she did him made her bold. "It's all right," Leandra said, pulling him back towards her. She couldn't stop herself from making a mewling sound feeling him nudge against her, separated by their clothes.

"There?" he whispered, thrusting his hips against hers. She gasped, pushing back against him and glad he didn't assume her hesitation meant she didn't want to do _anything_ else. He cautiously began to run his hands across her shoulders and down, moving slowly as though waiting for an objection. Leandra arched her back, pressing herself into him and sighing as his hands reached their goal. Hips pressed together, he captured her small moans with his mouth.

Eventually they managed to separate. Malcolm chuckled, dropping to sit on the floor near her feat and resting his head against her thigh. "If that's what the silent treatment gets me I should have tried it much sooner!"

"You're such a bastard," Leandra muttered. "You were trying to scare me!"

"I was," he admitted. "It was the smart thing to do. For both of us."

She looked down at him, smiling and running a hand through his hair. "And what happened?"

"I'm not terribly smart." He hooked an arm around her legs. "So what now?"

"I don't know," she said.

"Really, we _can't_ do this again," he said. "I know I said that before… but I'm serious." Malcolm looked up at her. "They'll kill me. I know I keep saying that but I'm not joking. The Chantry has killed a lot more mages for doing a lot less."

"You say that like you wouldn't fight back."

"What's the point?" he asked. "A templar could neutralize anything I throw at him, and frankly, I just don't have that mean of a right hook. Even putting all that aside… what's the best we could hope for?" Malcolm looked sad for a moment. "You should probably go. It's late, you don't want to get caught down here."

Nodding, Leandra stood up. Pausing to kiss him once more, she slipped out the door and up the stairs.

"You know they'll have a heart attack." Spinning on her heel, she glanced back. Gamlen was standing in his open bedroom door.

"I… don't know what you're talking about."

"Bullshit," he said. "You and the mage. We all know." He paused. "Well, _I _know. Mother and father… they're a little slow to believe perfect Leandra would ever do something _this_ bad. But they'll figure it out eventually."

She paled. "You're out of your mind, Gamlen."

"Right," he said. "Of course I am. _You've_ got a hickey and _I'm_ the madman. Sure." Her brother rolled his eyes. "He's a bloody healer, he couldn't take care of _that?_"

A hand flew up to her neck. "There is _not_!"

"But you checked," he said. "Which means there could have been." Gamlen shook his head, giving her a pointed glance. "You're playing with fire, Leandra. And not just the kind he can shoot from his hands."

She raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? You didn't _really_ say that, did you?"

"What?"

"How long did you spend coming up with that line?" The embarrassment on Gamlen's face gave her the answer. "Goodnight, Gamlen," Leandra said, returning to her own room.

Although there wasn't a repeat of the scene in Malcolm's room, the two did return to a sort of normalcy. Speaking at meals once more, they now added afternoons in the study to their schedules.

Leandra arrived at dinner one evening to see the table set with fine china. "What's going on?" she asked her mother.

"We're having company," her mother said. "Go get changed. Put on your pink dress."

"Um, all right," Leandra said. "Where's Malcolm?"

"Malcolm will be eating with the staff tonight," her mother said, giving Leandra a pointed glance. She felt color bloom on her cheeks. "Go change."

The company turned out to be the Comte de Launcet, his wife, and his son Guillaume. Leandra knew her mother was attempting to play matchmaker once more. The betrothal to Guillaume was nearly a foregone conclusion, but she probably hoped Leandra would come around to the idea. Considering that Guillaume seemed to assume Leandra had roughly the intelligence of a turnip and expressed some concern that she would exhaust herself by getting worked up when she disagreed with something he said, Leandra found a change of opinion unlikely.

Not that it stopped her mother from inviting them over almost weekly for the next two months.

"I swear," Leandra said one night in Malcolm's room after yet another intolerable meal, "he acts as though it's _literally_ impossible for me to have a mind of my own."

"He's _Orlesian_," Malcolm said with contempt. "What did you expect? You know how they treat women."

"All right, all right, _Fereldan_," she said, making a face and curling up closer next to him. "I don't care what the damned tradition is, they can't force me to marry him." She glanced over at him. "Can you just imagine the scandal if I said 'no' in the Chantry?"

"I take it that's an unusual occurrence?"

"Unheard of," she replied. "Wouldn't you love to see all their faces?"

Malcolm laughed softly, lips brushing her ear. "Considering that would require me to attend your _wedding_… I think I can wait for you to tell me about it after."

"Point taken," she said. Leandra shifted, looking him in the face. "I just wish—"

Malcolm put his fingers to her lips. "Don't," he said. "We both knew this wouldn't end well. Don't say it, though."

She sighed. "You're right. I should get going before someone catches me. Goodnight, Mal."

"Night, Leandra," he replied, walking her to the door. Glancing both ways down the hall, Malcolm quickly made sure it was clear before kissing her.


	4. Chapter 4

For the next several weeks her life became much more bearable. Leandra felt guilty that it had taken the old Comte's death to make it so, but welcomed the respite from the constant uncomfortable dinners and her mother's pressure. The Comte's family had been so consumed by the funeral arrangements that there was simply no time for social gatherings- even if they were in a mood to do so.

Saved from the incessant scheming of her parents, she found herself in a mood to enjoy the warm fall weather. One afternoon, while walking through the Hightown marketplace looking absentmindedly at dresses, Leandra found herself receiving congratulations from a pair of passing matrons. Before she could ask why, they had continued on their way.

"What's all this?" she asked, entering the house. Taking up much of the front hall were flower arrangements, dozens in all.

"Oh good," her mother said, rushing over, "you're home."

"What's going on?" Leandra asked again. "Why all the flowers?"

"The flowers were a gift," her mother explained brightly. "They're yours."

"Mine?" Leandra glanced around again. "From who? Why?"

"Well, from your betrothed, of course," her mother replied.

"My… what?"

Lady Amell sighed. "You knew this was coming, Leandra. Since he's come into his title we saw no reason to put it off any further. Really, now, you're already almost two years older than I was when your father and I were married."

"But I don't _love_ him," she said, backing away as though distance could change the words her mother had spoken.

Elizabeth Amell's eyes narrowed. "Do you really think you're the first noblewoman forced to marry a man you don't love?" she asked sharply. "Don't pretend this is some new form of torture we've invented, it's the way of things." Face softening, her mother drew closer, putting a hand on Leandra's shoulder. "Sweetheart, it will be fine. You'll grow to love him."

"And if I don't?"

"You will," was all her mother said, giving Leandra a look that told her there would be no further discussion.

That night, after an uncomfortable meal and even more uncomfortable discussion about the house he would build for them with the Comte, Leandra hid in her room until the family had gone to bed. Once she heard her parents' door shut, and Gamlen's tread on the stairs as he went out, she snuck down to the servant wing.

Knocking softly, Leandra pushed Malcolm's door open without waiting for an answer. He was curled on his side, lying in his robes on top of the blankets. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she could see him shift into a sitting position. "I suppose congratulations are in order," he said, voice rough.

"Condolences would be more in order," she replied, climbing up to sit at his side.

He snorted. "This where you come to say goodbye?" Leandra looked over and could see Mal's shoulders rise in a shrug. "Can't imagine it's… you know, _proper, _for a married woman to carry on with a mage."

Leandra raised an eyebrow, a gesture lost in the darkness. "Is it proper for _anyone_ to carry on with a mage?" After a pause she chuckled, adding, "and believe me, that's not an invitation for you to tell me stories about the Circle of Magi."

"Oh, I didn't plan on it," he said. They sat quietly, shoulder to shoulder, listening to the crickets outside. Eventually Malcolm broke the silence.

"So what now?"

"Now?" she said quietly. "Now… nothing. It isn't _tomorrow_. I'll think of something before then. Odds are he'll decide he wants something else once he realizes I'm not about to warm up to the idea. I can't imagine anyone wants a cold wife."

"Cold? You?" Malcolm laughed.

"Well, for _him_ I am." Leaning over, Leandra kissed him. They shifted to lie on his narrow bed, arms around each other. Breath quick, Malcolm pulled away from her eventually, apologizing. "No," Leandra whispered, "don't stop."

"Are… are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, pulling him back down onto the bed. "I'm sure." Fumbling with the top of his robe, she made a frustrated grumble.  
>Malcolm chuckled. "Look at these things," he said, gesturing. "You think getting them off would be that simple?"<p>

"I should have known," she replied, trying to hide her nervousness.

It didn't work. "You're _really_ sure?" Malcolm asked again.

"I'm sure I'll hit you if you ask me if I'm sure again."

"Yes, serah," he said, pulling his robes off.

Leandra bit her lip and looked at him, eyes moving across the skin of his shoulders in the moonlight. Kissing him again, she looked confused when Malcolm pulled back after a moment. "What?"

"I'm feeling a bit underdressed," he said. She could practically hear him smirk. With a giggle Leandra pulled off her long nightdress, tossing it to the floor.

With a sigh, Mal ran his hands across her shoulders, lips following his fingers. Her head falling back to the pillow, Leandra groaned as he latched onto one nipple, warm tongue flicking against her skin.

Moving his hand lower, she parted her legs slightly. Leandra gasped as his fingers moved, legs opening wider.

She clung to his shoulders, mewling with pleasure.

"I love you, Leandra," Malcolm whispered as she shook in his arms.

Gasping for breath, she kissed him again. "I want to… how do I…?" Wrapping her fingers around him, Leandra looked up at Malcolm. Guiding her hand, he groaned and leaned against her.

Eventually their eyes met, barely enough moonlight entering the room to see each other. "Are you ready?" Leandra nodded after a pause. Malcolm shifted, positioning himself above her. She grunted with pain and he backed away.

"No, I know it'll hurt," Leandra said, pulling him back towards her. "It's fine. I love you, I want this."

"I'll heal you right away," he promised.

Leandra giggled. "So… why in the world don't people like mages?"

Malcolm grinned, light briefly glinting off his teeth, and pushed forward, wincing at her sharp cry. Pulling out almost immediately, he quickly cast a healing spell before sliding forward once more.

Pain gone, Leandra rocked her hips up against him. Sweat coating their skin, the two moved against each other on the rough straw mattress. Her hands explored his back, shoulders and chest, lips not leaving his.

Once finished, they curled in each others' arms, silent.

"We'll figure something out," Leandra finally said, not sounding convinced.

"I know," Malcolm agreed, voice equally doubtful.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day Leandra had to sit for a painting. The irony of commemorating her betrothal to one man while she fancied that she could still smell another on her skin left her smiling. It was hardly the first painting she had sat for, and the situation still didn't feel real. It was easy to pretend this was simply another painting.

Once home, the afternoon was quickly forgotten. Each night Leandra would sneak down to Malcolm's room as soon as the house fell silent, not returning to her own room until the last moments before dawn.

They were no closer to finding a way out of the marriage when Leandra, and the rest of the household, was given a reminder of how little time remained.

"Isn't that lovely?" Elizabeth admired the painting, hands clasped in front of her. "I think he did a fine job." Several of the maids agreed, all responding with mindless flattery.

"You look bloody miserable," Gamlen said quietly, head cocked.

"Wonder why," Leandra replied with a roll of her eyes.

Malcolm gave her an unreadable look before walking from the room. Leandra silently cursed her mother for making such an event out of the unveiling of her betrothal portrait. She had even called all the staff to see… including him. Considering the look Elizabeth gave the mage's retreating back she suspected it was intentional.

That night Malcolm wasn't at dinner.

Once the house was asleep Leandra crept through the halls, nightdress swishing around her ankles. "Mal," she whispered, knocking on his door. There was a clatter and the sound of breaking glass before she could open the door.

"Andraste's tits," she heard through the wood. It swung open. Malcolm's hair stood up wildly on one side, his eyes were glassy. "Dropped a glass," he slurred. Leandra winced at the smell of gin. "Stay dere," he mumbled, pushing her into the hall. She watched him stumble towards her, turn to face into the room, and wave his arms in a surprisingly complex gesture. "No?" he muttered. "Damn." Just when Leandra wondered if he had forgotten she was there, he turned back to her. "Jus' a second," Malcolm said, nodding. He moved his hands again, this time in a far less complex pattern, and a blue glow surrounded his head. "Ah, better," he said, before repeating the first spell. A gust of wind appeared out of nowhere, sweeping all the broken glass against the wall.

"What was that?"

Malcolm smiled, turning to her. "Should be safe now," he replied, waving her in. "Sorry."

"Were you _drunk_?" she asked, already being quite sure of the answer.

"Still am," came the reply. "Just… slightly less."

She sat down. "Are you all right?"

"Nope," came the reply. "Can't say I am. Drink?"

"Maker, yes," she said. He got up, fishing a glass out of a drawer and pouring her a generous portion from the bottle. "'s good," Leandra said after shuddering. "Strong."

"I'd hope so," Malcolm replied. "Stole it from your father." He leaned back, pulling her to him. "I told myself I wouldn't get upset. I am a _horrible_ listener."

"Mal—"

"No," he said, shoving the bottle at her. "What can you say? We've been pretending it won't happen for months. That big, stupid, bloody gorgeous painting says otherwise."

"I'm not going through with it," she said, now slurring her words as well.

"Yeah, right," he said. "Get yourself disowned. For a Circle mage. That'll work out fantastically." He made a face before conjuring a small ball of fire, tossing it into the already roaring blaze. "I should have known this would happen."

Leandra looked away from the fireplace to him. "Mal, I—"

"I know," he muttered. "You love me, I love you, we're a living example of every bad Orlesian novel ever written. Bloody great."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," she said, pushing him to his back. "Not my parents or the stupid wedding or any of it. I don't want to think about it." Grinding her hips against his, Leandra leaned down to kiss him.

"Think about what, love?" Malcolm slurred between groans.

"And you said you aren't smart?" she giggled, pulling her nightdress off and tossing it aside.

"Leandra," Malcolm said, struggling to get undressed without pushing her off him, "right now I'll say anything you want."

Sitting up, he gripped her hips tightly. Leandra moved on Malcolm's lap, nails digging into his shoulders. He slipped one hand between them, rubbing between her legs. After crying out, Leandra went limp against him. Shifting, Malcolm rolled them both over, hooking one of her legs over his arm. Spurred on by her gasps, he thrust violently before collapsing onto her.

"Can we stay like this forever?" Leandra asked him quietly.

"Naked?" Malcolm replied. "Well… we could try, but it might raise some eyebrows at breakfast."

With a laugh she swung her legs over the side of the bed. "You're such an ass. Why do I put up with you?"

"Because you love me?"

Leandra sighed, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "You're right, I do."


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning Leandra woke and darted to the pot in the corner. Her mother must have been passing by: at the sound of her daughter violently ill she rushed in without warning. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Stomach," was all she could reply, still doubled over.

Elizabeth moved closer, putting a hand on her daughter's forehead. "No fever," she said. "Still, best have the mage take a look." She paused at the doorway. "Leave the door open."

Leandra made her way back to the bed, rolling her eyes. "Leave the door open," she mimicked. "Too late for that." Smiling, she laid back, remembering the feeling of his hands on her skin the previous night.

"Leandra?" Glancing up she saw Malcolm in the doorway, wooden staff on his back. He looked worried. "Are you all right?"

"Just an upset stomach," she said. "It's nothing."

"Let me decide that."

Walking over to the bed he rubbed his hands together before blowing on them dramatically, winking at her. She couldn't help but chuckle, stopping only when another wave of nausea hit her.

The first spell was pale blue. Malcolm knit his brow in concern, making a noise of distress.

"What?" she asked as he paled.

He began cycling through spells quickly, one shade of blue after another as his lips moved without sound.

"Shit," was all he said finally, sitting next to her.

Leandra pulled herself to her knees, moving closer. For all his worry she seemed to feel better already. "Mal, talk to me," she insisted, hand on his arm. "Am...am I all right?"

"You're healthy as ever," he said. "You're also _pregnant_, but that in and of itself isn't illness."

"I'm..."

"Yep..."

"Shit," she said.

He offered her a small smile. "I love how often we agree on things."

"You're sure?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Please don't kick me when I'm down. I'm still a healer; yes, I'm sure."

"Shit."

"Yeah, I think we covered that." He groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Well… what do you want to do?"

She sighed, falling back. "I have no idea." Rolling to her side, Leandra looked over at him. "I figured you knew, I don't know, _spells_ to prevent this sort of thing."

Malcolm paled, mouth forming words without sound for a moment. "Shit," he finally managed. "I'm an idiot."

"So… you do know spells?"

He nodded. "I… well… it's just…"

"Yes?"

"So did every woman I've been with before you. I guess I… forgot that you wouldn't be taking care of that yourself."

She stared at him. "I'm very tempted to hit you now. Very hard. Just so you know."

"I'd deserve it," Malcolm said.

"You would," Leandra agreed. "But… it's just as much my fault as yours. There's things I could have done. Teas—"

"Those are practically poison," he said, cutting her off.

"Well, we should have talked about this in advance," Leandra finally said. "Too late to argue about it now."

Malcolm glanced over, face unreadable. "I can… take care of it. If you want."

She narrowed her eyes. "You _sick_ son of a _bitch_!" Leandra said, punctuating each word with a punch to his shoulder. "How could you say _that_ ten seconds after I find out!"

"Woah!" he scooted away, hands up. "Stop hitting! I didn't say I _wanted_ you to!"

"You don't?"

"Maker, no," Malcolm said with relief. "But it's your decision. Ultimately your life will be upended way more than mine."

Leandra moved closer. "Well, what are our other options. Not… _that_, though."

He sighed. "If the Chantry finds out I'm the father they'll take the baby." She made a noise of horror and Malcolm nodded in agreement. "Mages can't have children, if they do the children belong to the Chantry. That's the law."

"Absolutely not," she said. "Over my dead body."

"If necessary, I'm sure they will," he said, giving her a warning glance. "But… you can always lie about who the father is," he offered. "I'll understand." Malcolm looked nervous, pushing his hair back. "Although I should warn you, odds are better than not it'll be a mage. It's hereditary."

She looked amused. "I think the Comte would know it isn't his, considering I haven't even let him kiss me." A plan was forming in her mind. "One more option?"

"Oh?"

"We can run away?" She was too nervous to look over and see his expression. When he didn't respond Leandra whispered "Mal? You… don't want to?"

Turning her by the shoulders, Malcolm looked at her. "You're serious?"

"No, I said it to change my mind immediately after. I guess the mood swings have started already."

He sighed. "Why am I suddenly terrified I'll regret this?"

"Because you're an ass?"

"Ah, all right," he smiled. "I should have guessed as much." He turned serious. "You know you'll probably never see your family again. We'll need to get away from Kirkwall, probably leave the Free Marches completely, just so the templars won't track me."

"How about Ferelden?" she said with a slight smile. "No new language to learn."

"You are utterly brilliant," he said, beaming, "and I love you." Leaning forward, he rested one hand against Leandra's stomach before kissing her.

They were interrupted by a shocked gasp. Parting, Leandra met Malcolm's eyes briefly, both wearing identical expressions of fear. Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing before turning around. Lady Amell stood in the doorway, a look of horror on her face.

"Go downstairs, Malcolm," her mother said quietly.

He stood, wringing his hands. "Lady Amell, I, uh, we-"

"Downstairs," she repeated, cutting him off.

Leandra put a hand on his arm, nodding. There was nothing he could have said to talk them out of this. "All right," he said quietly. Reaching the hall, he turned back once more, looking Elizabeth in the face. "My lady, I'm in love with your daughter."

Lady Amell looked pained. "I've gathered as much," she said. Once alone she turned to her daughter. "Wait here." Leandra suspected her mother was making sure Malcolm wasn't listening at the door, since she returned only a moment later, shutting the door behind her. "Nothing to say for yourself?"

"What should I say? It wasn't what you think? It probably was. That it was an accident? I don't think it's actually _possible_ to accidentally stick your tongue in another person's mouth." She shrugged. "We didn't plan for this to happen, we fought it… but it happened. And now it's out."  
>She sat down on the edge of the bed. "Maker's breath, Leandra. Do you have <em>any idea<em> what this would do to your reputation if it got out? What Guillaume would say?" She paled. "He would call off the wedding. Your reputation would be _destroyed._ Even if he doesn't… have you…?" Something in Leandra's expression must have answered the question. "How do you plan to hide _that_ on the wedding night?"

"Simple," Leandra said. "By not marrying him."

"You can't!"

"I won't marry someone I don't love. Especially not when I'm in love with someone else."

"Oh, so you plan to… what? Marry the Circle mage?" She raised her eyebrows. "You know as well as I do that's impossible." She stood up. "Enough damage was caused to this family when Revka's girl turned up a mage. I won't let you drag it any further down. You aren't the only Amell in Kirkwall, we all have to live with the consequences of _your_ actions."

Leandra argued, but kept one thing to herself. She had no idea how her mother would react to finding out about the pregnancy, and part of her feared the Chantry would only end up getting advance warning. Eventually they both gave up on convincing the other and Leandra was left alone.

Once dressed she went off in search of Malcolm. One of the servants was in his room, boxing up a sheath of papers. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

"Boxing these to send them off to the Circle," he said, giving her a sympathetic glance. "A templar collected Serah Malcolm to bring him back."

Leandra swayed on her feet, sinking along the wall to the floor. "_W__hat_?"

He turned to face her. "I am sorry, Lady Leandra. I know you were… fond of him." Hands on her stomach, she couldn't reply. "Your mother said 'go to the Chantry, get a templar to bring him back.' We didn't have any choice." He walked over kneeling in front of her. "If it makes you feel any better, he put up quite the fight. Lad's lucky he can heal himself or I'm sure he'd be aching for quite some time."

She gasped in horror before running off. Not surprisingly, her mother and father were talking in the study. She would have called it arguing based on the volume but the two seemed to be in complete agreement. "What have you _done_?" Leandra said, bursting into the room.

"What I should have done months ago," her father said. "You've ruined yourself for that mage, our only hope now is if we double your dowry the Comte won't call off the wedding."

Horrified, she could only shake her head and leave them to their scheming.

Days passed, and then weeks, but Leandra saw no way out of the problem. Letters sent to the Gallows were returned by the templars, her attempt to visit was stopped before she could even get on the boat.

One afternoon, perhaps a month after Malcolm had been taken away, Leandra attended a meal at the Harrimann's Kirkwall estate with her family. They seemed surprised she wanted to attend, considering she had barely left the house since Malcolm was taken away. No one knew she had a letter to him folded into her sleeve, hoping the Harrimann's family mage could find some way to deliver it.

Over dinner she claimed to develop a headache. Shown into an empty library, Leandra waited for the healer. A thin man in robes with pale eyes and a chinstrap beard eventually entered. "You are Leandra Amell?" he whispered.

"Yes," she said. "Do you know Malcolm Hawke? Can you get a letter to him?"

"I'm Tobrius," he introduced himself. "Malcolm had a message for you." Her eyes widened. The young man smiled. "When I overheard you were going to be here I sent a message to him right away. He had written telling me what happened."

"He didn't write me!"

"He tried," Tobrius said. "Your parents told the Circle…" Leandra made a face, wondering why that hadn't occurred to her. "He said to meet him at a tavern in Lowtown called the Hanged Man. It's not far from the docks." The mage looked at her, making sure she understood. "Near _the docks."_

"Good," Leandra said, feeling relief wash over her. "When?"

"Tomorrow night, as soon as it's dark."

She grabbed his hand. "How can I ever thank you?"

"Simple," he replied. "Don't get caught. And if you do… don't tell them I helped."


	7. Chapter 7

That night she emptied her jewelry box and most of her wardrobe into two canvas bags. Sneaking out once her family was asleep, she hid them next to the house, under a bush.

"Running away, then?"

Leandra jumped, spinning around. "Gamlen! You scared me half to death."

"Well?" he said. "Are you?"

"Yes," she replied, not seeing any point to lying. "Are you going to tell mother and father?"

He sighed, sitting against the wall. "No," her brother said after a moment. "I think you're insane but… I can't say I'm surprised."

"Thank you," she said, sitting with him.

"So… I'm going to be an uncle, then?" he looked over, smirking. "I guess the magic fingers were more interesting than you thought."

"How did you…?"

"You've been drinking water at dinner," he said. "_And_ you just admitted it." Gamlen looked over at her, glancing down.

"I'm not showing yet!" she said. "You don't need to check!"

"Sorry, sorry," he said. "Couldn't resist." After a moment he grumbled. "I suppose you want me to break it to them once you're gone?"

Leandra leaned over, giving him a hug. "Thank you," she said.

"I'm sure they'll find a way to make it my fault, you know. Leandra can do no wrong, all that."

She laughed. "Gamlen, I'm unmarried, pregnant, and the father is a soon to be apostate. And we're fleeing the country. I don't know if you could top that if you _tried._"

"Ah, so now it's 'Leandra is better at everything?'" he said.

Grinning, she elbowed him. "We're going to Ferelden. It should be far enough they can't track him, so we just need to make sure none of the templars there catch us."

"Good luck," he said finally.

"I'll write, once we're settled," she promised.

He nodded and returned inside.

The next day Leandra felt torn between joy and misery. She nearly sobbed at dinner, looking at her parents and knowing it could be the last time. When her father left to meet a friend for drinks and cards she was sure to say she loved him.

"I'm going out," she said to her mother, who had been watching her all night.

"Where?"

"Chantry," Leandra said. It was the first word that came to mind. Her mother only nodded.

After putting on her heaviest cloak over a plain dress, she set out. Her mother confronted her at the door. "Don't do this," she said.

"…do what, mother?"

"Whatever this foolish plan is," she said. "With that… mage."

"I have to," she said.

"No, you don't!" Elizabeth sighed. "You don't have to marry the Comte. You don't have to marry _anyone_. Just… don't do _this_."

"I have to," Leandra said. "I'm sorry."

"No, you _don't_," she repeated. "If you do you know your father will disown you. And Maker help me, I don't think I'll have it in me to disagree."

"Yes, I do," Leandra said. "I _love_ him. He loves me." She took a breath. "And my child deserves to know her father."

"Your…?"

"Yes," she said.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "I suppose there's nothing more to say, then," she replied. "You'll have to live with the mess you've made."

"I look forward to it," Leandra said. "Goodbye, mother. I love you."

When her mother didn't answer Leandra couldn't stop the tears that escaped.

Making sure to grab her hidden bags before leaving the estate grounds, Leandra stopped in the market to trade as much of it for coin as possible. Coin would be more helpful to them than silk gowns and precious stones.

Once she had made her way to Lowtown, she began to look for the tavern. Leandra tried not to stare at the people; she had never seen such poverty. Glancing a young couple, smiling at each other despite their ragged clothing, she wondered if that would be her life from now on. Her feeling of confidence brought on by their happy mood was shattered two blocks over, when a woman her own age stopped her, one thin hand on her sleeve as she begged for money to feed the scrawny toddler behind her skirts.  
><em><br>Nothing to be done_, she reminded herself. _Poor here, poor in Ferelden. My family won't feed a mage's bastard._

At last, after several wrong turns, she found a building with a wooden cutout of a man suspended by his leg from a rope above the door. After a moment of hesitation, she entered.

Malcolm was nowhere to be seen. Scanning the crowd, she waved off a waitress who offered to bring her a drink.

She looked around again, finally spotting him. "Mal," Leandra called, waving. He looked up and, on seeing her, stood. Removing the worn cap from his head, Malcolm quickly pulled a chair out for her. A few patrons, observing them, snickered.

"I've never been in a tavern before," she admitted quietly.

"Me neither," he said. "It's... um... it's more _rustic_ than I expected."

She giggled. "Well, you look the part. Where did you get the clothes?" In addition to the cap he was wearing a rough once-white shirt and coarse trousers. From the way he sat, legs apart, she could tell he was distinctly uncomfortable.

"Stole them," he admitted. "Figured robes would get me caught faster than we could blink. Although with the way I want to tear them from my legs I think I may give myself away."

"Good plan," Leandra agreed. "Except for the tearing part. I suspect even in Lowtown running around in your smalls would attract a good bit of attention."

They both laughed. "What?" he asked a moment later. "I know that look."

"Just... If our daughter ever asks about our past let leave the_ theft_ out of the story."

"Agreed," he said. "It's a boy, though. And I want to name him after me."

She laughed. "No, a girl. I just know. Don't ask how."

Malcolm put a hand on her stomach. "Nope. A son. _My_ son." He leaned closer and winked. "Once were alone I can find out for sure. I know a spell."

She shook her head, saying, "I'd rather wait and see."

"Suit yourself, Leandra," he said. Seconds later he nodded towards her stomach and said "Prove her wrong, Malcolm Junior!" She could only chuckle, feeling certain it was a girl.

That night they slept in a rough bed on the second floor. When Leandra couldn't stop worrying long enough to cease her tossing and turning Malcolm curled up beside her, brushing her hair back with one hand. She suspected he was casting a spell, but her eyes finally drifted closed before she could say anything.

He was already awake when her eyes opened. "Morning, love," Malcolm whispered, running his fingertips along her side.

"Morn— Oh!" without another word Leandra darted to the pot in the corner.

Malcolm was quickly behind her, hands glowing. "I'm so sorry," he said. "This is my fault."

"This is nature," she replied once her stomach had quieted thanks to whatever he had cast. "It will be worth it in the end."

"It will be," Malcolm agreed. "When we see our son."

"Daughter."

He snorted. "You'll see."

She slowly began getting dressed. "Why are you so insistent that we're having a son?"

"We can't very well name our _daughter_ Malcolm," he replied. "That would just be silly."

Leandra worked a brush through her hair. "And our child needs to be named after you… _why_?"

He sat across from her on the bed, red hair still sticking up wildly. "Because," Malcolm said, "I have been told since I was eight years old that I would never have a family. I never really thought much about it… but now that I am? I feel like I want the whole world to know. And if that means I have to stamp my name on the boy so everyone knows he's Malcolm Hawke's son, then that's what I'll do." He fell to his side, propping himself on one elbow. "Not that I would love a daughter any less. But following her everywhere screaming 'hey! That's my kid!' would probably get tiresome quickly for all of us."

"Agreed," she said. "Get dressed. I'm starving."

"All right, all right," he said. "Is this that 'eating for two' thing?"

"For two?" she said. "I haven't even eaten for _one_ today!"

He made a face at her, laughing as he pulled his clothes on. Before they left Malcolm pulled a small drawstring purse from his pocket, emptying it on the bed. "So… um…"

"Yes?" she asked, eyeing the small pile of coins.

"How much is food?" Malcolm asked, blushing. "I sold a few things to get this but… I have no idea what anything should _cost_."

She picked through the pile, removing one silver. "This should be enough." Before Malcolm could respond Leandra scooped up the rest of the coins, adding it to her own stash.

"Hey!" he said.

"You don't know what things cost," she said. "You want to stop and ask me before everything we buy? We'll get robbed blind!"

When she slid the coin across the table downstairs and the waitress snorted, saying "silver? Where are we? Hightown?" Malcolm only smirked at her.

The door opened halfway through their meal. Leandra glanced up, gasping. "Mal!" she hissed. "Don't look over, but a templar just came in." When he turned his head anyways she grabbed him. "_Mal__! _ He's looking around for someone!" She glanced back towards the stairs. "We need to hide!"

"No," he said, waving his hand. "This one's a friend." Standing up, he waved. "Carver!"

The man glanced over, removing his helm and smiling. "Mal!" he called, walking over.

"How goes the hunt?" Malcolm asked once the templar had joined them.

"Oh, frustrating," he said. "Last I knew you were seen boarding a ship bound for Minrathrous. Slipped right through my grasp, you did."

"A real loss for the Circle, to be sure," Malcolm said.

"Indeed," he agreed. The man reached into a pocket of his armor's tunic. "Here you go. Two tickets for Ferelden, leaving today. Have fun with the dog lords, Mal."

"Hey now," he replied, grinning. "Remember who you're talking to."

"The guy who managed to screw up his first assignment so badly they'll be talking about it for years?" the templar said with a grin. "Really, Mal? The Lord's daughter?"

Malcolm smiling, taking Leandra's hand. "Can you blame me?"

"I'm not answering that," he replied. "I say no, you get jealous. I say yes, you get offended." Carver shook his head. "No winning there. No matter what I'll just sound rude."

Both men laughed, Malcolm suddenly cutting himself off. "Maker, speaking of rude. Leandra, this is Ser Maurevar Carver. Carver, this is Leandra Amell."

"My lady," the templar said, nodding. "Don't mind us, Mal and I have been friends for nearly ten years now, ever since I was assigned to the Circle as a templar's squire." He looked back at Mal, adding "although I think I've more than paid back a few _lifetimes_ worth of favors with this."

"We can't thank you enough," Leandra said.

"Just… don't tell anyone who helped you if this goes bad," he said. "I don't relish the idea of losing my head." He paused, grinning. "And hey," the templar added, "if it's a boy, you could name him after me!"

Later on, Leandra glanced over at Malcolm as they packed quickly to catch the boat. "I am _not_ naming any child of mine _Maurevar."_

"Maker's breath," Malcolm said, sounding horrified. "I wasn't about to ask you to! That's just _mean_."


	8. Chapter 8

Ferelden, it turned out, was _very_ different from the Free Marches. The language might have been the same… mostly, but the similarities seemed to end there. Leandra spent the first several months constantly on edge, assuming the armed and armored people everywhere were a sign of danger. She wasn't used to the Southern nation's constant state of battle-readiness. She was also surprised to see just how differently women were treated in Kirkwall from men. Although Leandra had always known there was a discrepancy, it wasn't until being plunged into a nation where women were just as likely to carry weapons and fight battles as men that she saw how deeply it went.

They settled on a small farm, not a true freehold but better than the average tenant farmer, not far from Redcliffe. The baby was born healthy, and thanks to the captain of their ship, legitimate as well. It was soon joined by two others within their first three years. At Malcolm's instance they even bought a dog, an enormous mabari who looked at her with liquid brown eyes whenever she spoke to it in a way that made Leandra think the rumors of their intelligence were, if anything, underreporting it.

"How are you," Malcolm asked one afternoon, coming in from the fields covered in dirt and sweat.

"Filthy and exhausted," Leandra replied, one toddler at the table, the other balanced on her hip.

"I know the feeling," he replied. Sitting down, Malcolm stretched his neck. "You know, I think the swordplay lessons are taking more out of me than the fields!"

She laughed. One of the mercenaries who lived not far from them had taken Malcolm on as a student. A man in Ferelden who couldn't wield a blade was strange enough to attract attention, it seemed wise that he learn how- and quickly. Before Leandra could respond Malcolm was out of his seat and lunging across the table. "Carver!" he said, grabbing their two year old's hand, "this is _not_a toy!"

A knife clattered to the table and the boy, upset at his fun being spoiled, promptly began to shout and argue. He was joined not long after by his twin sister, Bethany.

"Are we just going to let them scream it out?" Malcolm asked her as she set the girl down.

"That was my plan," Leandra admitted. "I gave up on getting them into bed after an hour of this."

"The neighbors must think we beat them," Malcolm observed.

She rolled her eyes. "Really? Since sometimes I wonder if we're the only family in town who _doesn't._"

"Must be why ours fight so much," he laughed. Glancing up, Malcolm made a face. "Do you smell something…"

"Oh Maker," Leandra rushed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. As she neared the second floor the smoke became thicker. Malcolm was right on her heels. Pushing her aside, he kicked open a door and barreled through. Waving one hand, he looked around as snow blanketed the tiny bedroom, putting out the flames.

"Where is she?" Leandra asked, rushing in after him now that the fire was out. The child sized bed was a ruin, charred almost beyond recognition.

Opening the wardrobe, Malcolm sagged with relief before reaching down. Turning, he displayed his prize to his wife, two dark eyes peering out from a soot-covered face, almost all traces of red hair hidden under the grime.

"Malina, what happened?" Leandra asked, horrified.

Blinking up at her mother, the little girl only said "I had a bad dream" before bursting into tears.

Carrying her downstairs, Leandra cleaned her up before she and Malcolm put the girl back to sleep in their own bed, and carried the now sleeping twins off to their room.

"Well," Malcolm said, sitting at the table once again. "Seems my namesake is also good with fire." Leandra sighed with exhaustion, sitting across from him. "Won't this be exciting?"

* * *

><p><em>One last bit of art! http: nirrum. deviantart. com /a rt / Not-So-Different-Piece-3- 243837459_

_Special super thanks to Miri1984 for betaing this, especially since I was running crazy late and a total nightmare to work with due to random life-falling-apart issues. _


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